


How Hard Can It Be?

by Hetsez



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: French, Languages, M/M, One Shot, PWP, for Cheeki, handjobs, okay wow for some reason I think Glaz has a very attractive throat, sorry for the bad title pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16191032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hetsez/pseuds/Hetsez
Summary: “Learning French... How hard can it be?”UPDATE 15-11-2018: Now with translation into Chinese! See the link in the notes :D





	How Hard Can It Be?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheekiBreeki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekiBreeki/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [能有多难呢？How Hard Can It Be?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16631546) by [Hetsez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hetsez/pseuds/Hetsez), [KiraMacabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiraMacabre/pseuds/KiraMacabre)



> Your day is tomorrow, but... Happy birthday CheekiBreeki! You gave me this fic idea and I decided to write it for you for your birthday. Just took me a while to get it down on paper c: Thank you for being such a loyal reader and for our Twitter discussions c:
> 
> I've been having a lot of problems with writing and this is just a simple porn. Tell me if I made any mistakes on the French! It's been a while since I had the subject in school. I hope everyone will enjoy this c:

It was spring. 

A dull, boring spring. 

Not that the weather had anything to do with that - on the contrary. For UK standards, this spring seemed to be quite mild and dry, with watery sunshine in the mornings and pleasant afternoons in which the local population would already sweat and huff. They weren't used to, nor did they like heat. Even when it wasn't even _that_ warm. 

No, it was boring for a completely different reason: there were no missions. Even the White Masks seemed to have decided it was too warm to do anything, meaning that the ops at Hereford Base were sitting and waiting around, anxious for something to happen. But nothing happened. It stayed quiet on the terrorist's side, which made Team Rainbow SIX restless. 

It even went as far as operators taking holidays, visiting their families back in their hometowns with the promise to return immediately in case of an emergency. Six had allowed it and most operators used the opportunity to get away from it all and take a little break. This resulted in empty barracks and deserted corridors. Only a handful of ops were left at Hereford Base; they either didn't have any family left, felt it was their duty to stay on guard at the base or simply weren't bothered to go home. 

Glaz was an example of the last case. In their jobs, one never knew when the next mission would take place - could be tomorrow, could be next week - so he didn't think it was worth it to go and visit his family back in Vladivostok. Not only was his hometown on the other side of the world, he also hated the long flights that always left him dizzy, lazy and tired. It simply wasn't worth the jet lag if he had to return to the UK after a few days with his family. 

He didn’t want to spend the warm days painting either; the lack of missions causing an artist’s block he had never encountered before. Usually he used his emotions after a mission or tense training session to relieve the stress. Now that there was nothing to relieve, Glaz felt like all his paintings failed. He didn’t have the inspiration. 

And so, the Russian had been bored out of his mind before he found something to kill time with: 

Learning French. 

A strange decision perhaps, a Russian man learning French, but Glaz had always wanted to learn another language - fascinated by other cultures as he was. And so he had analysed his options: currently staying at the base were Bandit, Capitão, Vigil, Ying and Doc. Bandit would probably have laughed him flat in the face if he were to ask him for German lessons. Glaz wasn't keen on the strong smell of cigars that hung around Capitão, so he passed on Portuguese. He already knew he would never even be able to get through to Vigil to ask for help with the Korean language and Ying had already told him she was far too busy with helping Six' administration to teach him Chinese. That only left Doc to teach him French. 

Nothing wrong with that. Doc was a friendly, helpful guy who always had time for others. The man was patient, calm and above all supportive of Glaz. But every time he spoke French, Glaz melted on the inside. He had never thought such a silly little language could stir something inside of him like this. And Doc was always eager to talk more, explain, give examples, practice pronunciation with him. The Russian tried his best, but sometimes he forgot a thing or two... 

 

 

They were in the GIGN sleeping quarters, which was empty save for the two men sitting on the old sofas. The GIGN quarters were always tidy and clean, so unlike the Spetsnaz quarters where weapons and clothes alike littered around, wrappers of snacks lay in every corner of the room and the small coffee table was filled with empty bottles and cigarette butts, despite the rule that smoking inside wasn’t allowed in Hereford Base. No, the GIGN operators did not appreciate living in a pig's den. Not that Glaz did, but what can you do about four rowdy Russian guys living together in one small apartment? Glaz didn’t feel like playing their mother and cleaning up after them. They weren’t his kids! 

“ _Salut Timur, ça va?_ ” (”Hello Timur, how are you?”) Doc said in his friendly voice. Their lessons always started like this. 

“ _Salut Gustave, ça va bien._ ” (“Hello Gustave, I’m alright.”) Glaz answered in his best French-Russian accent. Doc seemed satisfied with it though. 

“ _Comment tu t’appel?_ ” (“What is your name?”) It was the usual follow up question. They had done this so many times now, Glaz was getting pretty good at this. 

“ _Je m’appel Timur._ ” He answered proudly, without even needing to think. 

“Very good, Timur. I can hear you’ve been practising on your accent.” The Frenchman complimented him with a warm smile. 

Glaz gave a small smile back, blushing slightly at receiving a compliment. It was true he had been practising, because if there was anything more satisfying than hitting the bed after a long day of endless training, it was making Doc happy. He was the friendliest soul imaginable. The lengths he went to to patch up himself and his fellow operators when they had gotten themselves hurt again during a mission always made Glaz feel like they should do something back for him. 

“We’ll skip the other formalities for now. I want you to count to twenty.” 

Glaz’ heart sank. He wouldn’t do Doc much proud with that. “But Gustave, we’ve only been over the numbers a few times...” He tried to excuse himself. 

But Doc shook his head and folded his arms. “Didn’t I tell you to practise them?” 

“... Yes...” Glaz mumbled, rubbing his neck nervously. He hated letting Doc down, but he hadn’t spent a lot of time on the numbers as he thought they would practise them together before Doc would ask him to count on his own. Usually Doc said a word and Glaz simply had to repeat it, like with the numbers, counting on their hands as they did. Glaz felt unconfident about having to do it alone now. 

“Well?” Doc said, slightly impatient. 

Glaz clumsily started counting in French. He couldn’t let Doc down. He just couldn’t. 

_“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept-_ ” The first bit was easy. But now he was on seven, and already doubting. What came after? The fact that Doc keenly watched his lips struggle as he talked didn’t really help either... “ _... huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze..._ ” The words came to him again all of a sudden, and he blurted them out before he forgot them. Doc nodded thoughtfully as he sat watching Glaz count quietly. The Russian was over halfway now but he had to admit he had forgotten most numbers from here on. “ _Treize... Quatorze... Quinze... Seize..._ ” And that was it. All Glaz’ brains seemed to remember was the French numbers up to 16. His brains failed to dig up the information. With a groan of frustration, Glaz gave up. 

Doc still watched him, patiently waiting. However it soon became apparent that Glaz had truly forgotten the rest of the numbers, so he shook his head. “Timur, those are the easiest. They’re literally ‘seven-ten, eight-ten and nine-ten’. Do you really not remember?” 

Shuffling uneasily, Glaz racked his brains. But he really didn’t. He dared a glance at his tutor, who watched him with interest and patience. He hated letting the man down. Of course this wasn’t a life-threatening situation and Glaz had never failed him during missions, but he felt bad about forgetting what Doc had taught him nonetheless. Glaz shook his head lightly, admitting defeat. 

“It's okay, we'll do it together alright?” Doc said gently. 

It took a whole lot to make this man angry, Glaz thought as Doc shuffled closer to him on the sofa and held out his hands to count on them, a friendly smile on his face and his eyes calm. Glaz turned towards him, watching as Doc held up his thumb. 

“ _Un._ ” Doc said. Glaz repeated him obediently. Doc held up his index and middle finger. “ _Deux._ ” He said and Glaz repeated him again. And so they continued until they reached ten, Doc holding out all his fingers to Glaz. He was watching his pupil intently all the while the Russian counted in his language. 

Now Glaz held out his thumb, and they continued: “ _onze, douze, treize…_ ” while Glaz held out the corresponding number of fingers, adding them up to Doc's still outstretched ten fingers. The Frenchman’s fingers were dark-skinned, Glaz' light. He watched them in concentration, knowing that if he would look at Doc's encouraging eyes, he’d forget the numbers again. 

Then Glaz reached sixteen again. Doc didn’t say anything, and his own voice faltered as well. He could feel the medic's dark eyes burning on him, giving him time and peace to think of the numbers he had forgotten before. Little did Doc know that Glaz couldn’t concentrate under his gaze at all, and couldn’t count on in French without his help. He shook his head and sighed, closing his eyes. 

He didn’t know. He just didn’t. Why was French so confusing? 

Gently, Doc took his hand that was currently only sticking out his thumb. Sixteen. The number he was stuck on. Glaz opened his eyes and saw how the Frenchman carefully pulled out his index finger. Glaz let him. His hands were warm. 

“ _Dix-sept._ ” Doc said softly as he watched Glaz’ face contort with concentration. Seventeen. It was the answer. Glaz’ gaze remained fixated on his hand in front of him, yet Doc could see a faint blush on his cheeks. Embarrassment? 

His tutor pulled out his middle finger, which was now sticking out along with his thumb and index finger. Eighteen. 

“ _Dix-huit._ ” Doc said, seeing how Glaz bit his lip as he kept his eyes fixed on their fingers. Was he trying to remember? 

Now the medic held his ring finger and put it next to his other four fingers. Glaz swallowed as he watched and felt the contact of their hands. 

“ _Dix-neuf._ ” Doc counted, seeing a spark in Glaz' eyes now. Did he remember after all? 

Doc pulled out Glaz' last finger and held his hand gently and for Glaz to see. 

“And…” 

“ _Vingt._ ” Glaz whispered immediately, looking at his open hand. Twenty. He remembered that one. 

“Exactly, yes!” Doc squeezed Glaz' hand softly and out of excitement he scooted even closer to the Russian. 

Glaz could feel the warmth radiating off his body now. He didn’t mind. He stared at Doc’s slim, perfect hands holding his own scarred and calloused one for a little moment longer. Then he looked up from them to glance at his tutor. He found Doc's dark eyes looking back, sparkling with excitement. He did remember something. Good. Even though it was only one number. He hadn’t let Doc down. 

“See, you remembered!” Doc beamed at him. 

Glaz scoffed. He broke eye contact, suddenly feeling awkward with how close they were. “Learning French… How hard can it be?” He shrugged with a lazy grin, again not knowing how to take the compliment. 

“You’re doing great.” Doc smiled back at him, his eyes flicking to the smirk on his lips. Doubt. Glaz' hand, his blush, his eagerness to learn and please his tutor, his perfect lips shaped in a grin… They were too much for Doc to ignore. He enjoyed these private sessions with the Russian, and he knew for a fact Glaz did as well. 

“Can you teach me more?” Glaz then asked, his voice unusually husky and his icy blue eyes finding Doc's again. The air got heavier, tense, but not in an unpleasant way. 

“More?” Doc repeated, shifting slightly. Did Glaz mean what he thought he meant? Glaz nodded. A small, naughty smile started playing on the Frenchman’s lips. “I can teach you more.” 

Glaz' reluctant grin turned into a full smirk as he stared back at the medic, as if daring him to make the first move. Of course, Doc gladly did. 

His gentle hand was still holding Glaz’ when he leaned in. 

Hot lips met soft ones instantly. A gasp, a sigh, a soft moan, as if both parties partaking in the kiss had been waiting for this to happen way too long. Doc tangled his hand into Glaz' short hair as he felt the Russian’s lips. He tasted outlandish, exotic, exciting, dangerous. Glaz was a killing machine, whereas Doc was a life-giver. Yes, he killed, but he also saved lives. He wasn’t as merciless and unforgiving as the Russian, in fact they could be seen as complete opposites. Yet at that very moment, they were equals. 

Glaz’ breath shuddered as Doc's gentle lips danced over his own rough ones. How long had he been craving this? He didn’t know and just let the moment take him. Because Doc was so warm, so gentle yet so fiery and passionate. Glaz was smothered in his love, soft touches and light squeezes, whereas Glaz had his hand anchored on Doc’s back, holding onto his shirt tightly in case he broke the contact. And Glaz didn't want that. 

The kiss deepened, Glaz pulling Doc closer and prying the Frenchman’s mouth open with his tongue. Doc allowed him in with a soft moan, letting the younger man take the lead. Glaz explored him, both with his tongue and with his hands. Doc was slightly shorter, slightly smaller than Glaz, yet his age showed by the way he held Glaz as if he was his old lover. One arm around his middle, one hand on his cheek. The man was hopelessly old fashioned. And so Glaz' persistent hands moved over every inch of his body, trying to get him loose. 

And loose he came. 

The rougher the kiss, combined with Glaz' hands on Doc's thighs, chest and butt, the more Doc let himself go. Doc's hand that had been around Glaz’ middle soon travelled further down, cupping the Russian’s firm ass with a satisfying grunt. His other hand slid down the sniper’s throat, feeling the manly bulk of his Adam's apple with his thumb. Glaz' breath hitched when he did. 

In response, Glaz’ hand slyly wandered to the front of the medic’s trousers and started palming what felt like a very stiff boner. “You’re already so hard?” Glaz murmured in between kisses, both amazed and amused. 

“You should’ve seen what your accent did to it.” Doc breathed with a grin, a light blush on his cheeks. 

“Is that so?” Glaz mused and returned a cocky smile. “I think your accent is much more attractive.” He now kneaded Doc's erection more forcefully. 

The Frenchman couldn’t hold up a cocky facade and he whimpered. “Glaz, please.” 

“Ah, what did I just say?” Glaz smirked, feeling the outline of Doc’s cock clearly, and was that a stain of precum on his trousers? 

“ _S'il vous plaît_ , Glaz!” Doc pleaded, his hands gripping Glaz’ shoulders. 

The Russian simply chuckled – even his own name had a french ring to it - and started undoing Doc’s trousers agonizingly slow. Doc watched with bated breath; his patience put to the test. What was uncovered was the medic’s throbbing, leaking cock. Doc whimpered once more when he was released, while Glaz pursed his lips at the sight. A hard-on has a certain beauty to it. 

He wasted no more time as he grabbed it, feeling its warmth and tenseness, and started jerking Doc off. The Frenchman inhaled sharply, biting his lip and groaning desperately. Apparently he hadn’t expected Glaz to go from 0 to 100 real quick. His hands ran over the younger man’s back, urging him on. As if Glaz would stop. 

The sniper stroked his hand over Doc’s warm length, that was soft yet hard. He watched how pre-cum oozed out of the slit slowly, and he slid his thumb over it to catch the drops and lubricate his hand. With that he moved faster, making Doc tense and squirm under his touch. He loved teasing the Frenchman, but he was starting to feel rather neglected himself. 

“ _D-Doc, voulez... vous...?_ ” Glaz tried in French, but he didn’t come much further than ‘do you want' because they sadly hadn’t been over requesting sexual acts in French yet. 

The Frenchman stared at him, the pupils in his eyes blown up as the French-Russian accent hit him right in his core. He looked into Glaz' cold eyes, noticed the patch of blood in the whites he had examined before, and then let his curious eyes trail down the Russian’s body. They stopped on his crotch and suddenly came to a realisation upon seeing a rather large bulk. “ _Ah oui, bien sûr._ ” Doc answered hastily when his slow brains managed to unravel what the younger man was trying to say. 

Glaz watched as Doc started struggling with the many buttons of his combat trousers. Amused he realised Doc probably didn’t even notice he was speaking French. He had put the older man back into default mode and that thought was making Glaz smirk as he slowed down his pace to allow the man space and concentration to work. 

Finally Doc managed to undo all buttons on Glaz' way too complicated trousers, and he opened the gap wide in order to lower the sniper’s boxers slightly. Now it was Doc's turn to stare. Glaz’ manhood wasn't long so much as it was thick, and the medic had his hand wrapped around it already before Glaz could even get a hold of the Frenchman’s again. 

Within seconds, both men were a panting, moaning mess. Glaz’ hands were on Doc, and Doc’s were on Glaz. Their mouths had clashed once again – which didn’t improve their breathing but who cares – and both men were picking up the pace gradually. 

Doc’s hands had an expert touch that the younger man hadn’t expected at all; but of course, knowing his way around the human body perfectly, Doc probably knew perfectly well how to stimulate bodily reactions. His years in the field hadn’t made him old at all: it had made him experienced, and Glaz found himself losing himself to the pleasure the Frenchman provided dangerously quickly. 

On the other hand, the medic was bathing in the feeling Glaz gave him. The deadly sniper, usually so cold and distant, was giving him a once in a lifetime handjob. The younger man didn’t lack any experience with his hand, despite his age. In fact, he was steady, like a sniper ought to be. Strong, quick strokes, never once missing a beat or losing his pace. It was rhythmic so that Doc knew exactly when he could buck into it, his hips rolling forwards to meet Glaz’ rough hand. The older man was in ecstasy, his eyes rolling backwards as the Russian stuck to his systematic stroking. 

They stroked each other into completion way too quickly to their liking, coating each other in white streaks. Their orgasms were powerful though, making both men groan in unison as they finished each other at roughly the same time. 

Doc fell back into the sofa, utterly spent and panting heavily. Somehow, the Russian seemed to have the stamina of a work horse. 

Glaz chuckled softly. “And what was that you just taught me there?” His voice was husky and hoarse. 

“ _Amour_ , of course.” Doc grinned at him despite his tiredness. “Love.”


End file.
